The Creaking Harpsichord
by Peridot Tears
Summary: Gilbert Beilschmidt is dead. That's what he's supposed to think. -Companion to Einigkeit und Recht und Freiheit-


_Disclaimer: Hmph :/_

...

"You're never going to see her again."

A playful smirk, a twiddling of thumbs. And Gilbert said nothing, returning the sneer with silence.

"You know that, don't you?" More of this; had Gilbert had his hands free, instead of clenched and bleeding by way of several guards, he would have strangled the man; but that was a rather futile option, if one at all, so he held his stone façade, glaring holes into the face that tried to torture him. Within the recesses of his mind, he held an image in action, of carving the man's lips, with a knife, his nails—he hissed inwardly at the thought of that sneer, sliced to ribbons.

But here, he had no power, not enough—here, he was bound and caged, and mocked and tortured, and the worst he could do was spit, chest heaving from how they had removed the bullet like a bird to a seed, buried in the dirt. It was funny, he thought, coolly—that a mere day could feel like a year, maybe two—and right above his head, perhaps even behind this wall he could almost touch, his brother, his younger brother—that brother, that would care to know what was happening, was there, tired, worried—unknowing.

He was still unsure of what to make of it. Ludwig. Elizaveta.

As the man—his _captor, _Gilbert realized with distaste—continued to mock him, he fretted, fretted like a mother, a brother, a lover—it was ironic, funny, even, how the latter two suited him. He believed he had fretted over this since the night he had come here—merely yesterday!—but he found that this was...inevitable. Was that the word? To think of them—Ludwig, a baby, a brother—_his _baby brother, in fact—the tall German, the soldier. The Nazi with hair golden, as if woven from thousands of rays of sun; and eyes: Eyes of blue, and how fierce they were, how cold—and yet how soft; beneath was a man unsure of people, and love. His brother, Ludwig, the soldier: The man of duty, perhaps.

_And he was right above their heads. _Somewhere, he was above, and he would help, or try, if he knew. He needed to know, first. And he didn't know.

Without breaking his expression, not for one second, Gilbert leaned into the wall; this, in its own warped way, was comforting, and so very—he loved it. The wall was cold, and in the midst of his captors' sudden alarm at the act, he smiled. He leaned and he smiled. Ludwig. His baby brother.

Then he found himself being jerked forth again—more yelling—a few slaps across the face—jeering—Gilbert refused to reply, his smile melting down; his gaze was set in stone, and it moved not.

"You'll never see her again!" was the taunt, and the effect was worth a milestone; there was more slapping, punching now, kicking, and Gilbert remained unchanged, unchanging, perhaps the stone in the river—but just once, this familiar phrase ailed him, finally succeeded—within, he grimaced, thought painfully of Elizaveta. He did not shudder, at least outwardly, when he saw her eyes—not outwardly either. She was gone, and he had pushed her away to achieve that—she was safer, though gone, gone and running. He had to wonder, not for the first time, _where was she—_

"We did try to poison her," the man sneered, having regained composure; Gilbert looked at him, blankly. "But you already know that, _Hauptscharf__ü__hrer." _He was mocking him, this much Gilbert knew. "And suddenly, you had this brilliant idea—help her escape!" Rage filled the man's voice, and Gilbert found himself rather surprised upon finding it genuine. "Turn her in, then set her free!

"But now she thinks you're dead, now—"

"And now"—Gilbert was croaking, this was the first time he spoke since arriving—"she's left. You can't have her anymore." He did not smirk. "You failed. You and your Führer failed. Der große Führer! You—"

"SILENCE!" the man roared, with another strike at the face—this time it hurt. "You kept your act up well, you Prussian scum, groveling at der Führer's feet, fucking that Hungarian every night—"

"Well!" Gilbert replied, voice rising, though he did not flinch himself. "Now we know why this"—he lashed out, kicking a guard in the shin—"happened! Mein Führer has no balls to call his own!"

"_Your _Führer!" The kick had startled the men—one of them pulled out his gun. "You Prussian scum—"

"You Nazi scum," Gilbert replied, his own rage taking pleasure in the other's. The barrel was pointed at his temple—the ring of it burned his skin, whitening a circle about his purpled flesh. It was cold, and despite the shard of lead down the shaft, it was welcomed, if only for how bruised his face had gotten—_always the face! _he thought.

"Lies." He stared at the man coldly, eyes a red so bright; it burned and he saw hers—green, a pale green, innocent green; they held a large and rounded shape, so mild, or at least most of the time—but when she fought—

"You will never see her again!" Perhaps they realized, to some extent, the effect this was having on him, and decided to only speak like so—

She had dyed her hair. She had thought she had him fooled; and, for a while, perhaps she had. He had given in to her advances; he had not resisted—he even helped her worm her way into his Nazi life, and let her into his room, every night, every night—_doing _things, things that were impossible until they became possible. How long ago had it been since she was married, and how long since she was divorced?

"She thinks you're dead." The man was trying to be cruel, and he was succeeding. They had thrown something over, something that bled red and glowed white, when they had taken him—down to the river, and Gilbert saw enough of its shape as it disappeared with a splash, as the swishing water quieted, as the men scuffled and held him down—it was a head, and Elizaveta was seeing it, down in the water. Whose head it was, he had minute inklings of. They had not pursued her then; perhaps they had already expended their energy on him alone; another could have ended in failure to take either of them. But the traitor, the former state of Prussia, was enough for that night.

State. The Königreich Preußen was not even that now. Funny—he still lived. Such was Deutschland, he supposed. But his thoughts did not linger there; it would hurt too much, more than he would like at the present, to let it sink in, and, try as he might, he could not turn the glaring eye at Ludwig.

Reality gnawed at him, and now he jolted back into it, though he had already been parrying it with his own thoughts—the handgun was slammed against his temple, twice, and he blinked blearily, having almost drifted off in the tirade against him for this and that...der Führer...West, maybe...Elizaveta, yes...Prussia...his blood boiled; the fire that he had kept frozen, under cold compresses, was near to bursting in a blaze. And he feared that inferno, for this was his brother's Reich, and his people had suffered already—the furnace was cooking, but what would spring from it?—ashes, charred wood, and nothing more. He had remained suppressed in this way, throughout the duration of the war, at least when he had realized how utterly _stupid _this Führer's ways were—

"I'm wondering"—and, just to satisfy his own needs of _I felt like it, _the man slammed the gun against his head again—"if you enjoyed it. I don't think that our own Deutschland, virile as he is, has ever enjoyed a woman before—"

Gilbert couldn't help it; head throbbing, eyes watering, he pulled himself up against the pain in his chest and replied sharply, "You should know how it feels, though at least he's masculine."

It took a while for this to sink in; he had not been so talkative for a long, noticeable while. He counted three awkward seconds after noticing the silence, then watched as the man's face purpled, as his fist came again, and it was in his own nature to block and return the strike; but his arms were held—

There was an audible crack, and he crunched on his own bloody gums; out popped a molar.

Gilbert stared and stared at his molar, running his tongue over the stump. Happily enough, he had not tasted blood in a long time, only smelled it. Perhaps he had felt a little bloodlust, if only because he was so used to it.

How fascinating.

And then it hit him—Hungary. Oh, his mind stated blankly, and he thought, with a touch of guilt, yes, they were taunting him with Elizaveta; that was who they were talking about. In the dim light, he squinted forward, almost expecting to see her; he was met only with the image of his captor, who smiled at the change of expression. This was the much-awaited result. And Gilbert could have sworn, had he not been so suppressed by his own dormant lungs.

He could not even bring himself to think of the details, because this was the desired effect—only the skin, and how they shook and both decided it was better off not slapping on name on their...what they would call "fuckbuddies" in their bawdy conversation...and yet failing—no, he could not help it, thinking of it, and how he could feel Elizaveta's hatred for him with every second spent in bed...

And now she was gone. And Ludwig too, for that matter—both cared, but both were so far away. At this time—where was she now?—for all she knew, they were keeping her somewhere here too, in some dimly-lit room, driving her through the same torture, telling her to same things, whatever to taunt her with—that _you will never see him again _and _how was he last night, anyway?_

The thought was sickening, and no surprises there.

But he had thrown her in the river. He had thought it would be enough. For the moment.

He stared coolly back into the face of his foe, though he was fettered by human flesh, bleeding and wounded himself, and suddenly, there was a flash of confidence—that, no, she was not here, and she was still running, where he did not know—where could she find safety, and make her safer than what came with what freedom she already had?—she had the whole world now, if first she could escape the Labyrinth, Europe.

Still, she was not here, and that meant more; it was more to him, more than what he already had. She had it better, then—maybe.

In any case, there was no helping himself.

And in that case, there was nothing for him, but to live. Survive, and live. The fire was in his chest, and at the same time, there was the ulterior scuffle—extinguish the fire, but for the moment; he was blowing on the furnace, ashes in his mouth, trying to keep the embers alive as they flickered, willing more time before adding wood, or coal, or peat; whatever to recall it to life.

Epiphany, like enlightenment!

The grin crept up his neck, to his face. Toothy, bloody, like hell, like Gilbert Beilschmidt, or else Preußen; he would fight; here was his battle, and if he could not win it, then he would lose with a smile, a cackle, even.

He grinned harder still when his eyes widened in shock—they were large and round and misty, red like eclipsed moons. This was noted—the grin with cracked piano teeth, the glittering orbs plucked from the sky—when the fake head was produced, trailing blood and vomit. It was him—but not him, because he was him, and he was the one staring at what was not him—a fake head, dripping. He smelled copper and dye. If he could extend his tongue, then he could taste it—

An image in motion flashed within his mind—something thrown over, arching the sky and landing with a splash, following Elizaveta—

She did think he was dead. He gritted his teeth, cheeks hard from smiling. Through the little piano keys came music, glistening with the blood he spat—"You faked it—"

Yes. Yes. "Yes." The man said it loftily, a cold look about him; triumph, perhaps. "It was quite hard getting the measurements, but we never trusted you, you see; and when that Hungarian came, we thought we would need a fake head, one way or another—maybe if you needed to disappear, and we had to tell Deutschland, all for his own good..."

Another image—it flashed with bright light. Ludwig. Then, Elizaveta. Ludwig, he must have thought...that he was dead...or convinced himself—and Elizaveta...surely, she had seen it—

Here, he had no one.

He smiled alone.

"You fucking cunt—"

There was laughing, his laughing, rude, loud, Prussian laughing; it flew, a jumble of distorted notes, and he felt quite lightheaded; more laughter joined his, and then he heard a shot, warmth spreading through his chest—more shots—maybe he was being killed, maybe not—

A flash of light, once more, a throbbing in his head, more echoing laughter; a feeling that he would wake up somewhere else, somewhere worse than this, somehow—and then...and then—even in blackness, he grinned like a skull.

...

_**PT: Companion to Einigkeit und Recht und Freiheit—it's been nagging me ever since I posted **__**the "decapitation" scene—where in hell did they get a head?—and, more pressing, why?—why in hell would they go to so much freaking trouble to make a God-damned fake head? So eventually this came along, jabbing me with a rifle—. So yeah. A little explanation. In terms of Einigkeit und Recht und Freiheit, this is set a day or two after Hungary escapes the prison.**_


End file.
